Harold’s hut. Some were horribly swollen from the breaking out and were racked with fever. They had come to himwith a solemn question. “Are we all going to die? Will none of us live?” “Of course you’ll live,” he said. “Will Ari be back today?” It was just then he heard the far-off sound of an airplane and went out to the clearing. The plane passed over the clearing twice, then disappeared. The nearest place to land was at the Jacare Post. Harry and those who had come to help would take at least three days steady paddling to reach the village. The next day while Harold was wearily trying to feed the baby with the salt shaker, he again heard the roar of a motor. A plane dipped low and buzzed the village. As it curved and started back, he realized that someone was going to drop something. “It’s medicines,” he thought. “Great scott, if it drops to the ground, everything will be smashed!” The plane dipped low. A white package shot downward. Harold ran for it, made a flying leap, and - missed! The missile just escaped his upstretched hands and sank into the leaf roof of a long house. Coming at a rate of about a hundred miles an hour, the package shot through the thatch and fell with a thud to the dirt floor. But the thatch had broken the speed of its fall. He entered the hut and picked it up. Not a bottle, injection, or syringe was broken! “Great guy you are,” he said to himself, “running head on at a missile travelling a hundred miles per hour. Where are your brains?
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